


Kettering (I Was Checking Vitals)

by fabella



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Background Case, Blasphemy, Castiel tries very hard, Castiel wants to be that someone, Character Study, Dean is not really in this but he also kind of is, Friends to Lovers, Headcanon, M/M, Mermaids, Missing Scene, Monsters, Pining, Post-Season/Series 09, Pre-Season/Series 10, Romance, Sam doesn't want to need someone to take care of him, Sam needs someone to take care of him, Sastiel - Freeform, Sick Castiel, Slow Burn, Summer, UST, Unrequited, Unrequited Castiel/Sam Winchester, building relationships, single character point of view, they both need hugs, very mild spoilers for season 10, what I did on my summer vacation starring Sam and Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-28 23:11:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3873373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabella/pseuds/fabella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Season 10, Sam and Castiel hunt together for nearly an entire summer. It goes a little something like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kettering (I Was Checking Vitals)

_We went on a hunt today_ , Castiel texts Dean. _I think he had fun._

(Backspace).

Over the cell phone, Castiel observes Sam wash up in front of the Station Wagon. He scrubs roughly at his forearms with a bar of soap until they are covered in pink foam, then spins the cap off a bottle of water and dumps half of it over each arm, soaking the front of his shirt. The liquid cuts through the worst of the mess. Blood spirals off Sam's fingertips in a translucent red stream that glows in the light.

Castiel wiggles his own fingers, blue light arcing between the tips. He sighs and strips the blood from his trench coat with a pulse of intent. Sam looks up at the flash of light, and his eyes are especially bright with the sunlight in them, and the blood on his face.

Castiel texts Dean: _Dear friend, I will keep him safe._

(Backspace).

*

Castiel throws his coat into the back with the weapons and books, and hangs both hands out the open passenger window. Wind rushes at his limbs and snatches his hair. After days of rain, the sun is a warm benediction. The sun is something you can not only see, but feel. With eyes closed, it feels like flying. Castiel smiles into the warmth, turns to share it with Sam, but Sam's eyes are hidden by his dark sunglasses. Still, Castiel smiles brightly, because Sam's mouth is creased slightly upward. That feels like flying, too.

Today, they are going to see a psychic in North Carolina. Does this psychic know they are aiming for her? Will she see that it's been three weeks since Sam found his brother's dead body missing, and two weeks since Castiel tracked Sam to an alley behind a biker bar, (passed out in his own dry vomit, one eye swollen shut). He'd smiled then, too, laughed even, when Castiel lifted him by his shirt collar, steadied him against the brick wall, and it split the scab on his busted lip open, turned his mouth into a piercing, red stain. Or will she see only the present: Sam, suit jacket secured by three black buttons, tie noosed at his throat. A man sober and as present in this moment as a human stuck in forward momentum can be, fixed like a knife point stuck in a map. And what, exactly, will she make of this angel on his shoulder whose thoughts a human would translate into colors and gradients? Castiel is unsure what to make of himself.

Where is his point on the map?

"Do you think she knows we're coming?" Castiel asks.

"If she's the real deal," Sam says, chewing on the broken tine of a plastic fork.

He keeps aiming at Sam, and missing.

Night has fallen when they park in front of a decaying house surrounded by a handful of houses held together more by mold than nails. A bug zapper buzzes on the netted porch. Castiel stumbles over the curb when his foot fails to follow the usually instinctive lift-and-forward command. Sam catches him by the elbow. His face is naked without the ever present sunglasses. They make bracing eye contact.

"Ok?" Sam asks, brow crinkled.

"Of course."

The bug zapper snaps. Sam releases his elbow. Castiel tugs his coat into place.

She opens the door before Sam can ring the bell, all of five feet (genetic), bouffant red hair (once natural) and stained blue jeans (deliberate). A small taser crackles in her right hand. The psychic measures them while an electric current sparks blue between the tasers prongs. The screen door stays shut between them.

She's the real deal, Castiel surmises.

"Ms. Lana," Sam starts, solemn.

"Go home, baby Winchester," she barks. "I ain't taking part in this. I stayed out this long, and you two sure ain't got what it takes to change my heart. Got it?"

She nods to them both and retreats to shut the door, but Sam leans onto the balls of his feet and hunches slightly, making himself smaller. Castiel recedes as the force of Sam's personality bleeds through the constructed suit and tie. Ms. Lana freezes like a startled rodent, a gloss of otherness coating her mascara-caked eyes.

"Ms. Lana," Sam purrs, then shifts methods again, putting one hand on the screen, fingers spread wide, entreating. His mouth goes soft. His eyes turn liquid. An old sadness appears masterfully from just under his skin, and Castiel holds his breath. "Tracy. Bobby wrote to you twice a year. He said you can find people."

"No good drunk," she sniffs, patting her hair. "Damn good kisser."

Sam grabs the back of his neck and ducks his head.

"He'd be glad to hear it." A deliberate pause. "He all but raised me."

"It's true, then. He finally bit it."

"I'm afraid so, ma'am. He told me. Before. I should call on you. If needed."

"And now he can't tell me that his own self. Cuz of Winchesters. You steer clear, kid. When he didn't write me, I knew it must be you." She turns to Castiel, lifts the taser and makes a spark jump. "You too, Mr. Castiel. I ain't got room in my family tree for the shit storm you two waded through to get here. Ain't got the boots, either."

"I... have no idea what that means." Castiel clasps Sam's shoulder, squeezing his friend's tense flesh, and steps to to forefront. "But we understand the concern. We are only here to ask a single question. After that, we will leave and never return."

Tracy smiles faintly, looking through him. Castiel glances down to make sure he is still corporeal and gives his stomach a surreptitious pat. He returns her smile somewhat hopefully, aware that his smile is usually off-putting.

"Let me tell you something," Tracy says, slowly, like the words are being read from a book Castiel doesn't see. "Oldest Winchester son is dead and gone. Nasty business. It's a waste of grace, chasing around the country with the last living Winchester, Mr. Castiel. You ain't got the steel. Or the time. You think I don't know what that shade of pink means in your fat angel head? It means you're in for a world of hurt, you hear?" She points a red bedazzled nail behind him. Castiel follows her finger. She's pointing at an over-full trash can and a rusted bird mail box sitting on the ground. "Take one look at at what road this moose takes, then go the other way."

Castiel blinks at her.

She scoffs, haze lifting. "Not that you'll listen."

Sam groans like the trunk of a tree giving out. Tracy refocuses sharply and she brings the taser up between them, electricity reflecting blue in her eyes. Sam pushes Castiel aside, but Castiel spins and blocks him, grabs him by the shoulders and tries to make eye contact. Sam stares him dead on, so that Castiel can see himself in Sam's expanded pupils, and lifts both hands between them. He grasps Castiel's forearms, and with clenched teeth, thrusts Castiel's hands off. Castiel sighs. He stands back again and scrapes a hand down his face.

"Dean's alive," Sam says, so close to the screen that he nearly kisses it when he speaks. "Someone took him. Please help me."

Tracy peers up at Sam, face twisted unhappily.

"He ain't taken," she spits.

"I'll ask again," Sam says.

"He's dead."

Sam slams his balled fist into the door frame. The whole thing shakes. Tracy jumps and her face goes white under the tinted foundation. She scurries backward, rug kicking up around her, and latches onto the door to swing it shut with a jangle of bracelets.

Castiel glares at the porch roof as he hears the tumblers of several locks drop into place, then something heavy being dragged across the floor from a short distance. Finally, a solid thump jars the screen door partially open only to slam again. Sam curses and hits the frame once more, less forcefully. He shifts his weight forward and braces his forearms against the peeling wooden panels on the face of the house, forehead grinding against his clenched fist, jaw bone bulging.

Castiel waits it out, arms at his side. Thirty seconds later, Sam swivels, forehead still planted, and opens one eye at him. Castiel waits, eyebrow raised. Sam watches Castiel from his stoop for another minute, then straightens and fixes the set of his suit jacket over his hips and buttocks. He's losing weight, Castiel notices. There is an extra hole in his belt.

"What now?" Sam asks, fiddling with his shirt cuffs.

Castiel tilts his head, taking inventory.

"I would like french fries," he admits.

Sam rotates gradually on his heels, still staring.

"What?" Castiel asks.

Sam shakes his head and smiles tightly. Castiel waves him ahead. Sam takes the sunken porch steps two at a time, and Castiel follows at a more restrained pace. It's true that Dean is most likely dead. Even so, Castiel finds himself here, walking three feet behind Sam Winchester as streetlights blink on. Sam pulls the car keys out of his jacket pocket and jogs across the street to the parked Station Wagon (acquired). He unlocks the driver side door and waits there while Castiel lets a car pass before he crosses the street himself. Sam pats the roof once when Castiel opens the passenger door, like that means something.

Castiel glances one last time at the dilapidated home of Tracy Lana, Local Psychic. She reciprocates from a second story window, obscured by a set of lace curtains. As they pull away from the curb, Castiel puts his hand out the window, secure that he has more wisdom than a forty-something divorcee from Backwoods, America.

Twenty minutes later finds them at a greasy snack bar where Dean would have rejoiced. It's set back from the main road out of town, surrounded by patches of brown grass and shattered beer bottles. They sit on the same side of a picnic table placed off to the side of the parking lot, and Sam talks somewhat mindlessly with his mouth full about his favorite soft icecream shop, just one hundred and some-odd away. The vegan ice cream flavors they carry. Castiel eats quietly, one french fry at a time. Chewing is good for digestion.

Inside the tin eatery, the waitress, cashier, and line cook navigate around each other, gossiping loudly about the waitresses ex-girlfriend's ex-boyfriend's best friend. Who is really cute. Castiel listens, fry lifted partially to his mouth, head cocked. Sam knocks their knees together. Castiel moves over, but Sam does it again, and this time he waves a hand in front of Castiel's face, wiggles his fingers.

"You keep drifting," Sam says, coming into focus.

"Hmm, yes?"

Sam tilts his paper cup in Castiel's direction, straw offered. The light from the snackbar sign is pink on his cheekbones. There are paintings of Sam Winchester in Heaven, but they always make Sam's skin look hard, serpentine, when it is actually very soft.

"Try it," Sam says, dimpling. "See what I mean."

Castiel frowns as his stomach swoops unpleasently, but bends to the cup, sips precisely from Sam's straw. Sam watches him intently. The chocolate shake is cold on his tongue and melts sweetly. Castiel gulps. The grainy liquid goes down with a cold burn and hits his stomach like a chunk of ice.

"Good?" Sam asks, quietly.

Castiel nods, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He's shivering.

"Sorry about earlier," Sam says, pulling away to scowl down at the cup. He fiddles with the straw, bending it and letting it snap back to shape. "I keep thinking---Dean's out there. Waiting for me to find him. And, I just. I need to think clearer. I'm gonna work on it."

Castiel carefully folds his napkin, sets it to the side.

"I'm really glad you're here," Sam says, and he seems younger suddenly, a stilted hesitation to his words. It startles Castiel to realize what kind of age difference there is between them. "I mean it. You've been a big help so far. I don't know what I woulda done. Gone crazy, maybe."

When Sam begins chewing on the straw and analyzing their perimeter, Castiel touches his own mouth. It doesn't feel peculiar. They are his normal human lips. Sam keeps talking, doesn't shut up really, manic and buzzing with thwarted energy. His hair is charged with electricity and reflecting pink hues. The sleeves of his jacket are rolled up.

He must not realize. Castiel knows what he tastes like now.

*

Castiel texts Dean twice the next week.

_I sometimes think this is an extremely ill advised practical joke._

_I worry about Sam constantly._

(Backspace). (Backspace).

To Sam, who is not at the bunker, and who is not answering his calls:

_Where are you?_

_Answer your phone._

_Do you need me?_

(you have no new messages).

_I can help, dammit._

(you have no new messages).

_If you are hurt, please come to me._

(you have no--)

(you have no--)

Sam, a day later: _Checking in. I'm OK. Call you later._

To Dean, a third text:

_I will kill him._

(Backspace).

*

A minute is nothing. Less than nothing. Castiel has the context of the universe and because of that, a human minute falls comparably short.

This is how Castiel justifies it to himself when he catches himself drifting for minutes at a time, fixated on the luster of sun glinting from the fine hairs on the ulna bone of Sam's wrist. Sam balances that wrist on the steering wheel when he's sleepy, tapered fingers dangling. Castiel sinks low in the passenger seat as he obsesses, sighing. Inevitably, Sam will chew the nails of his other hand for a while before he catches himself, then he will straighten and put both hands fully on the wheel at the appropriate degrees.

Castiel is allowed a minute. It's troubling that there are so many minutes, of course, and that Castiel is so distracted for these minutes when it is important that he focus. Sam needs him sharp. Dean, too, in absentia, needs him sharp. It was easier to meet the Winchester needs when he didn't also need to meet the demands of his human vessel. For every day they spin their metaphorical wheels, Castiel meets a night where the anvil behind his eyes becomes so heavy that he must lay down and relinquish control to a human sleep.

"I'm tired," Castiel says, unable to look away from Sam's profile.

He doesn't mean to say it.

Sam swivels his gaze from the road. Clarity chases away the dull sheen from his gaze. He looks more aware than he has all morning as his eyes skate over Castiel's rumpled frame.

"It's still early, Cas," Sam says, but he is already looking at road signs and changing lanes toward an approaching exit.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Castiel says. "I haven't been sleeping well."

A minute is nothing, Castiel assures himself, rolling his skull against the headrest and peering at Sam's profile from under his lashes. A minute of sleep is nothing. A minute for the consumption of water and food is nothing. A minute of hoping to never find an answer, to stay on this trip forever, to touch that wrist---that, also, is nothing.

Consider the lifespan of an Angel.

Consider---

Sam nudges his shoulder.

Castiel wakes, blinking as Sam's face comes into perspective, stubble rapidly succumbing to afternoon beard. Sam's hair is tied back, forehead bare. Behind him, the car window is now filled with purple light. The time lapse startles Castiel into an upright position. He wipes the drool from his chin with his coat sleeve.

"I already got the room," Sam says, handing him a numbered key.

Castiel moves to open the door. Sam stops him when he is partially outside, and Castiel would be annoyed, because he is sweating and he can smell the stinking molecules, but Sam is touching his knee (on purpose). Castiel peers into the vehicle. Sam is bent across the center console, face creased with concern.

"Make sure to drink water. I left dinner by the bed."

Castiel's stomach drops. He feels strangely like he is weighted to the earth.

"Why?" he says. "Where will you be?"

Sam's lips quirk. He doesn't answer. Of course.

Castiel climbs fully out of the vehicle and slams the door shut hard enough to dent it. He stands there in the motel parking lot with his hands in his coat pockets as Sam makes a wide arc onto the road without the proper use of a turn signal. Castiel looks upward when the car vanishes onto a side street. Stars twinkle. Obnoxious.

Because he is thirsty (and not because Sam told him to), Castiel goes inside the room with the door marker that corresponds to his key. He sits on the floral blanketed bed closest to the door and drinks tap water from a plastic cup. The fried chicken and onion rings leaves his fingers greasy. He wipes them on the bed spread. When he checks his cell, he has no new messages.

Because he is still tired, Castiel lies down on the sloping mattress and shuts his eyes. When sleep doesn't come instantly, he huffs, and reaches for the remote control, hoping for reruns of M*A*S*H. Blue and gray light leaps onto the walls, flickers like a cold flame over a poorly hung painting of a church. He checks his cell. 

(you have no new messages).

Hawkeye says: "Pretty Girl, ain't she?"

Duke Forrest answers: "Yeah, she's the type that really grows on ya."

Castiel checks his cell. He has no new messages.

 _Sam_ , he texts. _I am having trouble sleeping_.

Castiel stares at the phone in his hand attentively. It chirps within three minutes, screen lighting up with Sam's name.

(you have a text message).

" _Home soon_ ," Castiel reads out loud. "Home soon?"

Castiel rolls his eyes and falls back onto the mattress. A water stain covers a large patch of the ceiling. It resembles the face of one of Castiel's brothers, but on a much smaller scale. True to form, an angelic cheekbone would require two motels of this size to accurately depict. He lifts the phone above him and considers the two words from Sam.

 _Be careful_ , Castiel texts back.

(you have a text message).

_Got my big boy pants on._

Eventually, Castiel sleeps. If he has human dreams, he never remembers. When he wakes at dawn, Sam is prone on top of the blankets of the next bed. His jacket is piled beside him, along with the customary flannel shirt, but his boots are still on. Castiel quietly climbs from beneath the weight of the blankets, shivering as he tip-toes to peer over Sam's broad shoulder. His eyes are obscured by his hair, but his mouth is slack. Silently, Castiel unties the laces of each boot, listening for a change in Sam's breathing. He shifts when Castiel tugs the last boot free, bends his knee and settles more fully into the mattress.

Castiel takes the keys from the nightstand and goes for coffee.

He texts Dean's phone.

 _Sam is annoying_ , he writes.

He deletes the text immediately after sending it. He deletes every message he sends to his absent best friend, because he is a transcendent being, and he realizes how ridiculous he is being. There is a measurable distance between realization and restraint. In atoms, Castiel couldn't count the distance, but he does know he hasn't crossed that space yet.

*

In late July, Castiel develops a small case of what Sam calls a common cold. It's midnight and they are canvassing a church library known to have been built by the Men of Letters when Castiel's throat begins to itch. He stops in his tracks, frozen in contemplation of the erratic prickling. Castiel clears his throat. The prickle crawls upward and Castiel hacks loudly. Sam squeaks and swings around, pinning Castiel under the flashlight beam. Castiel puts his hand up to block the light and peers around his hand. Castiel opens his mouth to explain and coughs again. He squints at Sam.

Sam twitches, brow creasing.

"What is that?"

Castiel coughs.

"Are you coughing?"

"I," Castiel says. "I feel unwell."

"You're sick?" Sam stage whispers. "How are you sick?"

Sam approaches him, flashlight bobbing with every step. He shines it directly in Castiel's eyes and lifts a hand, cupping the air around Castiel's ear as if to steady him. He studies Castiel closely, so Castiel returns the favor, measuring the space between Sam's features. When Sam presses the back of his cold hand to Castiel's forehead, Castiel exhales into it and feels his eyelids flutter. Sam is usually much warmer. The chill is welcome.  
Sam blinks rapidly and pulls away, dropping the flashlight to his side. Even with his enhanced vision, Castiel cannot clearly distinguish his features. He checks his forehead as well, but the shape is not especially abnormal.

"What is it?" Castiel asks.

"You have a fever," Sam says. "We're leaving."

"No, we can't--" Castiel starts, but interrupts himself by coughing from his chest. It jerks his whole body, and is followed by another just like it. Two coughs, then three. More. Sam squeezes Castiel's shoulder while Castiel shudders and tries to catch his breath for a reason other than the usual Sam-related asphyxiation.

"C'mon," he says. "I'll buy you soup."

"I don't like soup," Castiel reminds him sternly, but allows Sam to shepherd him up the basement stairs. He certainly doesn't need Sam's assistance to walk, but now that he is aware of his hot forehead, everything else feels hot, too, and his legs are weak.

"I am sorry," Castiel tells Sam hours later as Sam guides him through the bunker hallways. He repeats himself in Sam's bedroom, but Sam shakes his head and smiles thinly as he lifts Castiel's legs onto the mattress. He drags a quilt over Castiel's body, tucks it close and secures it under Castiel's shoulders, leaving Castiel to watch his neck and jaw from a close distance without being noticed. "This has never happened to me before."

"That's what they all say," Sam says, and pats Castiel's knee. When he sits down the mattress sags under his weight. Gravity lends Castiel the perfect excuse to nudge his thigh against Sam's hip, so Castiel shifts his knee weakly, aching for the contact.

"What about the church?"

Sam shrugs, and begins chewing on his thumbnail.

"We'll go when your fever is down. You need sleep."

"I don't want to," Castiel whines, but he is already fading, tucked as he is in Sam's own bed, where it is soft, and warm, and smells like soap. Castiel nudges Sam's hip again, fighting to lift his eyelids, too nauseous to win the battle. "I want to help."

"Sorry, buddy, that's not how this works," Sam says, standing.

"Don't be angry with me," Castiel says, or tries to say. His tongue is thick, unwieldy. His eyes close and he doesn't see Sam's face. He sees a long tunnel instead. He walks there for a while, unafraid. His wings would not fit in the narrow passage, but he's just a man. Castiel sleeps for hours in Sam's bed, waking only to roll over and tuck his face into the cooler pillow. Sam checks on him twice that Castiel notices, a broad silhouette who blocks the light from the hall, followed soon after by a cool hand on his forehead. Fingernails scratch through his hair roughly.

"Sleep," Sam says. "Dammit, Cas."

Perhaps Castiel only thinks Sam says that.

By the morning, Castiel is revived. He gets out of bed on his own, and stands unbothered by the pull of gravity, wiggling his toes. They are cold. Castiel dresses in Sam's sunless bedroom the human way: one article of clothing at a time. He remembers to tuck the shirttail into his pants, and pays careful attention to his zipper. He sits on the bed after, with his palm on the rumpled sheets. He stares at his own hand.

This is where Sam sleeps. Castiel thrills at the thought.

 _Sam, entangled_. The curve of spine. A mile of legs barely covered. _How absurd. Not a mile._ But, still. And what of, there's always... _the rest of him._

Castiel stands sharply and marches himself out of Sam's bedroom.

He finds Sam by the stove in the kitchen. He hesitates in the doorway, naked toes curling on the cold linoleum. Sam's shoulder blades shift under his thin t-shirt. He scrapes burned scrambled eggs from a charred pan onto a plate, reaches for a bottle of salsa and dumps it over the yellow mess. Water drips from his wet hair onto the nape of his neck, soaking into his shirt collar. Castiel licks his dry lips.

"Sit and eat," Sam says, without turning. "This is yours."

Castiel jolts. Sam glances over his shoulder.

"You look better."

Castiel sits guiltily. Sam sets the plate in front of Castiel and grabs a chair opposite, sipping from an FBI coffee cup. Castiel picks up the fork awkwardly, takes a bite. Like always now, the food is a festival of texture more than taste, something he must bare for the wellbeing of his transport. He takes another bite in quick succession, spurred on by the ache in his stomach. He chokes a little, food backing up, and holds his hand over his mouth to keep the eggs from splattering the table. Sam hands him a paper towel.

"Thanks," says Castiel, already forcing more eggs down his gullet.

"Is there anything you need to tell me, buddy?"

The fork clacks against his front teeth. Castiel swallows without chewing.

"No," he says, and hopes.

"Really," Sam says. He rotates the mug within his hold, gaze just over the rim and all the colors of Earth. "Because last night you couldn't hold your own head up. Is that common for you? Is this grace making you sick?"

Castiel shoves more eggs into his mouth and stares hard at his plate.

"Fine," Sam says.

The mug hits the table with a sharp click. Castiel looks up and sits back as Sam leans in, fingers grasping the table edge. Sam's mouth is white and thin, like a cracked chalk board, and he perspires beer and shampoo. Castiel is riveted. Pained.

"How about this," Sam says, emotionless. "I can't stomach another lie. I watched my brother die, felt his heart stop under my hand, and I can't even trust that. So if you're hiding something? And it gets in my way? I am walking away. I won't ask questions. I'll just go."

Castiel can't swallow. He meets Sam's bloodshot glare as the eggs grow cold and soggy on his tongue. Castiel feels his human heart palpitate.

"Do you get it?" Sam asks. "Don't make sacrifices for me. I don't want them."

Castiel puts his fork down shakily and makes himself nod. He is silent as Sam scrapes the chair back. Castiel opens his mouth when Sam is gone and the eggs drop wetly onto the plate. They look like yellow brains.

"I just want to help," Castiel tells Sam, later, in line at an espresso shop.

Sam is ostensibly examining the menu boards. Castiel considers snatching the sunglasses off his pointy noise.

"I can't think about that," Sam says. "Not right now. We need to get back into the church. When does the evening service end?"

Castiel glares at Sam's temporal lobe.

He texts Dean:

_In a thousand years, I have not imagined putting someone over my knee to spank them. In reference to your brother, I've given this considerable thought._

(Backspace).

That night, Castiel finds a handful of redemption. The bones they have been questing for are hidden in a Folgers can. Castiel discovers it behind an overturned shelf, sitting in a pile of broken urns. The flashlight beam spins upward as Sam takes the can from him with a large and shaky hand that is only less tremulous than his smile. Castiel bats roughly at his own hair, and ash bursts into the beam between them like cloud. He knows the literature about these bones are nothing more than myth.They will simply burn to nothing.

Sam's smile. That is real.

*

_Dean._

_You must really be dead._

(Backspace).

*

Sam tends to fall asleep reading. Face first. Castiel finds him in the library more than once, nose literally buried in a book.

Today, he sleeps on his outstretched arm instead of the book crease, and his hair is pulled back in a messy bun that leaves his face exposed. Castiel drifts into the tungsten light, moving around book strewn chairs and tables soundlessly. A record rotates on the phonograph and scratches quietly over a series of piano notes. Over it, a woman speaks dryly in Latin. Castiel pauses the record with his forefinger and moves to Sam's side. Sam's shoulders continue to rise and fall with his easy inhalations, wide ribcage expanding under blue flannel. It doesn't require imagination to picture Sam as the college student he must have been (diligent, impressive, shorter hair, a more ready smile). Jess must have considered herself absurdly blessed.

"There was a time I barely liked you," Castiel tells him.

Sam's face remains impassive.

Castiel scrutinizes the books Sam has close at hand: Unburying the Dead; Cane and Able, an Annotated Text; Soul Eating, a Guide to Angel and Demon Currency. The one nearest Sam's lax face is still spread open, yellowed pages flattened by one of Sam's big hands. Castiel uses a single finger to flip through the next few sections, pausing on a red and black stencil of the human heart. A spell is pinched in the space around the image, tight handwriting that winds and spins and changes direction abruptly.

Castiel frowns as he translates the Italian. A Winchester descendant could slit his own wrists and bleed out with a spell like this one.

Castiel grits his teeth and the page glows blue. Key words drain wetly together, blurring forever. The nausea that follows will pass. Castiel carefully turns the pages back, and Sam exhales on Castiel's knuckles, a stream of warm air that smells of stale pizza and coffee. Castiel flinches and pulls his hand away, bending at the hips to stare at Sam's face directly and from a short distance away.

It's just a human face, and a funny one, honestly: pointed and speckled with moles and feline at the right angle. Is it this exact construction of features which is so compelling? If the cheekbones were slightly duller, would Castiel spend less time in contemplation of them? Castiel touches his own face and straightens slowly as he traces the prickly edge of his jaw. His angelic guise (self, not guise---he is an Angel of the Lord) doesn't require nearly as much grooming. Humanity is an inconvenience, at best (he is lying to himself).

Sam snuffles, fingers twitching where they are curled loosely around a chewed up pen. Castiel tugs the pen free and sets it aside. He grasps Sam's warm shoulder, shaking it gently, and a chunk of hair flops onto Sam's cheek.

"Sam."

Sam stirs and blinks at him without lifting his head.

"Sam, there is a hunt."

"Ugh," Sam says.

Castiel doesn't retreat when Sam stands, back cracking three times-- _pop, pop, pop!_ \--and Sam looks down at him from his full height, stark green eyes wide in surprise. This is the feline angle, it seems. After a long moment, Sam drops a big hand on Castiel's head, ruffles his hair, and steps around him. Castiel sways.

*

 _Here's the situation_ , Castiel thinks, pumping gas.

Sam and Castiel share a history. A rolling debt.

Castiel manipulates Sam then looks to Sam for guidance. He coerces Sam's downfall, only to lift him jealously from hell. His own hands have provided both nightmares and comfort. Destruction and restoration in an endless cycle. It's nearly impossible to pinpoint where they are in the loop.

_Dean, what if he doesn't let me stay. He has no one else._

Inside the store, Sam arrives at the cashier. He glances at Castiel through the plate glass window, but drifting clouds obscure his expression. Castiel has borne his madness gladly, reached into his soul for answers, and still Sam is more question than explanation.

_Who are you? What are you doing to me?_

Sam pays and exits the store, pushing the door open with his hip. Salads and coffees are balanced in each hand. As he approaches, veering into cutting sunlight, Castiel shades his eyes. It's a habit from before. Sam offers a paper cup, then perches by the wheel well, and sips from his own. There's something familiar in his staged posture. A shadow.

Castiel composes a text message.

_Tell me, Dean._

_How many ways did he make you leave, and how do I fight him._

(Backspace). (Backspace).

*

The mermaid seizes Sam's ankle, then his thigh. She climbs his body like it is made of hooks to catch her. Sam scrabbles against the side of the tipped boat, slapping water with his flailing hands. He manages to snatch a knife before it sinks below the surface. Ensnared by a net of hair forty yards away, Castiel battles the mermagic as Sam goes under with the sea beast, gulped up by the sea water. A minute passes and bubbles rise to the gnashing surface. Sunlight gleams there, diamond bright.

Castiel arches and bucks within the ropes. Grace burns. One length of hair finally snaps with a pained cry, and the rest follow mournfully, weeping as they denature into a cloud of separate strands. Castiel sucks in unnecessary air and dives below the water. Sparks pinprick his vision and he is lightheaded instantly from using his grace. He cuts through the water weakly, arms and legs trembling with effort. Beyond his reach, Castiel spots Sam locked in the mermaids arms, lit eerily green. Sam kicks his legs, but without urgency, only enough to stir his untied bootlaces in the current. He's not fighting.

Castiel swims closer on human strength alone.

Sam's eyes are open. The mermaid snaps at his face with three sets of teeth, her hair fanned out around them like a thousand grasping arms, the color of new gold. Sam grins at her, air bubbles spiraling from his mouth, and she drags him down, snarling. Castiel pursues them as they sink lower and lower, away from where the sun and Castiel can reach. The weight of the ocean presses at Castiel's skull. The wings that belong to his stolen grace flutter somewhere inside, beg to expand.

Blood floats out of the dark, glows ruby in the water.

Salt water rushes into Castiel's open mouth as he shouts Sam's name. A figure looms out of the deep, cutting through the blood with precise strokes, and of course it is Sam, a knife glittering where it is held between his teeth. His stupid hair puffs out and flattens to his head with each pulse of movement. Sam reaches him and points up, raising his eyebrows. Castiel rolls his eyes and chases Sam's sudden dart to the surface.

He pops out of the water just behind Sam.

Sam grins around the knife, dimples everywhere.

"Scare ya?" he garbles, around the weapon. His lips are bleeding.

Castiel slaps water at his face. The knife falls out of Sam's mouth as he sputters and swallows water. It drops away into the sea, toward its final victim.

"Didn't know you cared," Sam says, spitting water and blood, and he's laughing at Castiel with his eyes, water sparkling in the wrinkles. Castiel despises him.

"I hate you," he tells Sam, and swims away. He tries to heave the boat over, but Sam grabs his leg with five hot fingers and drags him back into the water by his belt. Castiel twists, growling, and leaps. Sam yelps. Castiel uses the momentum to pull Sam under with him. They tangle below the water, rainbow fish bursting into frantic motion around them. Their human bodies bump and skid where they impact: arms, legs, and cheeks. Sam gets an arm around his throat. Castiel knots a hand in Sam's hair and yanks.

Castiel is laughing too when they breech the surface again. Sam slicks his hair back from his forehead, water dripping from his nose.

"I want a beer," he says, treading water. "You?"

They sit on the beach that afternoon in a set of rusty towels while they wait for their clothes to dry, and they split the last beer between them, one slow sip at a time. It tastes like structures sound. Sam tells him about Jess for the first time, and doesn't avoid Castiel's eyes, and though Castiel knows the story, it's different hearing Sam tell it.

Everything is different with Sam.

 _Is it this_ , Castiel wonders, watching the tide approach. _The experience_. The _doing_ and the _witnessing_ and the _responsibility_. Would anyone fall in love under these circumstances or is he simply beyond heavenly reconciliation? Sand gathers on their bare legs, and Castiel leans as close as he can get, laughing at the correct moments.

*

To Dean, he admits:

_I could live like this._

(Backspace).

*

Castiel slaps at the nightstand, nose buried in the starchy pillow. He doesn't lift his head. The phone vibrates inches away, a slowly moving gnat that Castiel can't squash. Castiel groans and offers the tiniest pulse of energy. The phone catapults into his open palm. Castiel brings in to his ear, knocks himself in the temple, and grunts.

Scattered noise and screeching music answers him.

One eye pops open. From his spot in the bed nearest the bathroom, he can see that Sam's bed is still neatly made, the overnight bag resting unzipped at the foot.

"Sam?" Castiel says. "What's wrong?"

"This is my song," Sam shouts back. "Listen!"

Castiel pushes himself onto his elbows. Music pumps into his ear, but it's all indecipherable noise. So far Castiel hasn't grown a taste for rage metal.

"Where are you?"

"Did you hear it? See what I mean!"

"You're drunk." Castiel sits up, kicks the covers off. "What establishment are you in?"

"Well." Sam pauses, then his voice drifts away, and there is the hush of fabric in Castiel's ear. "Hi there. No, that's my shirt. Cas, buddy, I think I'm---she likes my shirt! Gonna dance, gotta go, love you, bye."  


Castiel trips as he is sticking his legs into his pants and knocks a painting off the wall. He rights himself and glares at the phone. The display is dark.

He dials Sam's phone number, but the call goes directly to voicemail. 

Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose very hard. Sam is obviously the reason why his headaches are turning into migraines. Less than a complete thought later, a tug becomes a yank within Castiel's chest cavity. He sees his own eyes light up electric blue in the dressing mirror. He is a vacuum of heat and transition, and then he is standing in a crowd of flushed, gyrating bodies, and random lights are flashing from every angle. The floor vibrates and the room tips. Castiel wobbles.

He throws one arm out to establish balance and ends up with a handful of shimmery fabric. The skinny girl it's attached to winks and rolls her tongue into a miraculous shape. Castiel snatches his hand back. As he turns, and turns again, bodies pressing at him, tugging, there is a blinding clutch in his nasal cavity and wetness slips onto his upper lip. Castiel wipes it away and stares at his forefinger. Human blood.

Castiel's gaze narrows in on the dark gleam, and beyond, Sam comes into focus, easily a head taller than every single human near him: a sharp edge in a sea of rounded curves. There are two people on him, and that's the right way to describe it. They are latched onto him: one male, one female, both glittering and half naked and blonde. They spin around Sam, switching out which side of him they rub against. Sam's eyes are shut and his neck is arched and his mouth is bare with a grin. Does the human mouth really have so many teeth?

"Yo! Flag flying low!" shouts a short girl in a studded necklace.

Castiel zips his pants and latches his buckle for good measure.

"Thank you," Castiel responds. "Your black lipstick enhances your eyes."

Sam throws his hands up and folds them behind his head. His muscled arms light up red, then blue, then red again. Castiel pushes between a kissing pair, one hand on each of their faces, and hardly notices their hissing response. Sam's eyes are shut, clenched, a determined pout on his mouth. Castiel realizes his arms are blocking his ears. The dancers swivel and circle around him, imitating, but Sam is off rhythm. He doesn't belong here, and thus, Castiel will take him away.

The shift in music is felt before it is heard, and with it, the crowd that has been slowly rubbing each other as if to spark a fire begins at once hopping in every direction. Castiel dodges the leaping humans as he carves a path to Sam, ducking and weaving where necessary. Bodies collide around him without design, and Sam is nearly still in comparison, swaying between his two partners. The pretty glittery boy who has been kissing Sam's hair abruptly switches gravitational allegiances and hops onto Sam's back, hooting his joy above the crowd like a drunken bird. The girl pouts away. Sam staggers under the boys minimal weight and drops to one knee.

Castiel lights a little more grace on fire to be instantly at Sam's side. The young man jumps ship and latches onto a drunk neighbor, spinning wildly into the crowd. Castiel catches Sam under the arms. Upside down, glassy eyes blink at him and reflect the rotating light show above their heads.

A slow smile drifts over Sam's face.

Castiel's stomach twists like a wet rag.

"I missed you, Cas," Sam says serenely.

Castiel yanks him up, and then grabs him when he starts to fall over in the opposite direction. Sam's arms are damp with sweat, some not his own. Castiel clutches him until he steadies, and then rotates him slowly, until his arm is bracketing Castiel's shoulder. Sam is pliable, begins tumbling forward when Castiel guides him by the waist.

"You still have your shirt," Castiel notes.

The girl with black lipstick latches onto them for an instant, and Castiel and Sam both brace, but she only plants a wet kiss on Castiel's cheek and bounces away, pounding her fists victoriously in the air. Castiel tries to share a look with a melty Sam, but it's like looking at a mirror with a sheet over it. Sam is only a Sam shape.

One staggering step at a time, they escape the crowded dance floor. Sam tries to pull away when they pass the bartender lighting a liquid filled shot glass on fire, but Castiel is an Angel of the Lord; it's nothing to lift Sam just enough off the floor so that it appears he is still walking while Castiel actually carries him the rest of the way out of the bar. Sam giggles the entire time, head knocking into Castiel's, nose digging into his ear.

"I'm flying, Jack," Sam giggles.

Castiel rolls his eyes. Titanic, again.

_Dean, you were right. Sam has clearly seen it too many times._

Outside, the air is brisk. It's rained since Castiel went to sleep. Its molecular structure is still apparent as a sheen on cement. The dampness seeps into Castiel's nostrils.

"Careful of the puddle," Castiel says. Sam's muscles bunch like a wound spring, and Castiel sighs, but when Sam hops over the muddy hole, Castiel hops too. Water splashes up, soaking the fabric at their ankles. "Where is the car?"

Sam waves vaguely at a row of dark vehicles, and drops his chin so that his head dangles forward, dragging them headlong in the wrong direction before Castiel adjusts, tugging Sam firmly toward the station wagon.

"Here we go," Castiel says, propping Sam against the side of the muddy car. "Now where are the keys? Did you drop them?"

Silence answers him. Sam stands swaying for a moment, feet braced wide apart, then tips his gaze to the sky. Melting backwards, he bends until his elbows are propped on the hood and his neck is arched painfully. The visible skin above his jeans is dark in contrast to his white shirt as he slides back and forth against the hood, cloth scraping metal. Castiel reaches out, stilling Sam by flattening his palm on Sam's left pectoral. Blood pumps under his hand. Sam lifts his head, stares at Castiel more directly than he has so far tonight, wet bangs hanging in his eyes.

"Your keys," Castiel says hoarsely.

Sam shrugs. Dimples.

"You are always so." Castiel stops, presses on Sam's chest. "Difficult."

"And you're so," Sam pauses like Castiel had, and then cocks his head exaggeratedly sideways, nearly toppling, and points at his own skull. "This. You always do this."

Castiel drags his hand roughly down Sam's front and jams it into Sam's pocket, where it is hot, cramped, and slightly sweaty. Sam's thigh is solid and he hums when Castiel's fingers stumble over it, knuckles catching on the fabric. His fingertips nudge the warm keys and Castiel hesitates, Sam's thigh alive under his hand. For an instant, less than a fragment of a fragment of time, not measurable by any human standards, he hesitates. It would be easy, he knows. Sam would accept him and take comfort from it. Castiel knew what motions to make, and if Sam regretted it, then--

Castiel rips his hand free. They keys land with in the mud with a wet plop. Castiel licks his lips and stares at the long line of Sam's neck, where it is inches away, smelling like salt and lime.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says. "That was inappropriate."

Sam stares at him mutely, then lifts his gaze to the sky again.

"It's weird," Sam says.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says again.

"No, not---we're friends now. You keep trying to protect me."

"I have for a long time," Castiel reminds him. He almost doesn't continue, but Sam isn't looking at him, and it feels so good to say it. "I have always tried to be a good friend to you, even if my actions were questionable. But you're correct. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable or, or, obligated, but my perception of you has always been that I should hold myself slightly apart from you, and I didn't---know why."

"I'm an abomination," Sam mumbles.

"No, it was not---well, yes, you are. But that's---good."

Sam chuckles throatily, adams apple bobbing.

"No," Cas growls. "I'm not explaining myself well."

Sam drops his gaze from the sky and his eyes are wet.

"It's ok," he says, placing both hands on Castiel's shoulders. "Just do me a favor? Let's stay here for a minute."

"Why?"

"Dean and I," Sam says, then pauses, and swallows. "When we were out of the city, where the lights weren't so bad, we'd park the Impala, and sit on the hood for hours. Watch the stars. Point out constellations. There wasn't a point to it. It wasn't about work. We just shared a few beers and stayed quiet. I don't know what he got out of it, or if he did it for me---but I felt better after one hundred percent of the time." Sam shakes his head. "He would always do that. Piss me off then make it better."

"You're sad," Castiel reflects. "This will make you feel better."

Sam lifts one shoulder, lets it drop.

"Show me," Castiel says.

They sprawl on the hood and windshield with their arms tucked under their heads, and Sam anchors Castiel to the slick metal by sitting on part of his trench coat. Patrons of the bar gift them slow-blinking stares as they stumble together toward their vehicles or out onto the road, and once, a group of young ladies shout and whistle until the youngest of them, a pixie blonde, starts convulsively throwing up. Sam doesn't acknowledge them, so Castiel forces himself to remain quiet and watch the stars, which are no real wonder to him. He has seen the end of the universe.

Castiel tries to view the night sky how Sam must view it with his limited vision: pinpricks of light in an eternally dark security blanket.

After a while, Sam's temple drops against Castiel's shoulder. Castiel freezes, heart leaping to his throat. He tilts his chin, peeks down. Sam's eyelids are shut, an emptiness on his sleeping face. His bottom lip is wet. A deep protectiveness (hunger) wells in Castiel's stomach. Sam has been his to protect for many years now, more than Sam himself knows, but Sam's right: it's different now. Castiel turns dutifully away from Sam's vulnerable (appealing) face and sees the universe how he naturally sees it: a network of interconnected explosions leading inevitably to natural conclusions.

Castiel trembles.

*

 _This will not end well_ , he texts Dean.

_Dot. Dot. Dot._

(Backspace).

*

Castiel stares at the shovel Sam holds out to him.

"What?" Sam says.

"You're serious," Castiel says. "You want me to. Dig."

Sam rolls his eyes and tosses the shovel. Castiel catches it and holds it before himself at a distance. It's a primitive tool, honestly, like anything on a stick is.

"It won't bite, dude, just---shove it in the dirt, and scoop it out."

The back of Sam's shirt grows damp as he works, visible in the faint light emitted by the cheap battery operated lamp Castiel is holding. Sam has been forced to shed the constant flannel, and his arms gleam with sweat. Castiel swings his feet above him, taking measured bites of the sandwich Sam thought to bring for him. He chews thoughtfully as Sam bends and pivots, the muscles in his strong back crisply outlined by wet fabric.

"Is it your turn yet?" Sam asks, between grunts.

"You have thirty seconds. Push, Sam. Feel the burn."

Sam stops and peers up at him. He leans on the handle of the shovel and wipes the sweat from his eyes with the collar of his shirt.

"Are you watching early morning television again?"

"Maybe," Castiel says, and picks up a handful of soft dirt.

"Cas, no," Sam says.

Castiel grins. _Sam, yes_.

Sam scowls at him as dirt falls from his bangs.

Summer stretches thin, eventually. It doesn't occur to Castiel, who has never measured his existence by something so simple as the tilt of the earth, but seasons change. He returns to the bunker one day to find Sam at the end of a jog, wearing sweat pants and a sweat shirt. Sam plucks the headphones out of his ears at the sight of Castiel, electric guitar spilling from the earbuds, and scoops a handful of decaying plant life from the ground.

Castiel allows him to approach, unguarded, both hands in his pockets. Sam laughs from his throat and deposits the clutch of leafs squarely on the crown of Castiel's head.

Sam backs up, and frames the image with squared hands.

"Picture perfect, baby," Sam says, dimples.

Castiel burns a shard of grace to nudge the tree branch above their heads, and one by one, all the leafs begin raining down. Sam looks up, mouth parted, and his face is clear as the reds and yellows drift between them. One lands on the point of Sam's nose and he shuts his eyes reflexively, blinking rapidly. Castiel smiles, and holds up squared hands, framing Sam's expression.

He's doing that a lot.

_Smiling._

*

 _You said to let go_ , he texts Dean.

_I miss you, my friend. And yet, I am happy._

(backspace). (backspace).

*

If only the human condition were not so impermanent.

Sam's nightmares grow worse soon after the change in season, so much so that he stops sleeping altogether, and begins adding holes to his belt again. At 3 am, Sam is usually still burning his thigh with the overheated laptop, scanning article after article for a glimmer of his brother. He listens to the music that Dean would, drinks the liquor that Dean favored. In many ways, he's a mutated reflection of Dean's miserable final year. There are stretches of time when Sam doesn't shower or eat or speak, just pins weather articles to the wall in the kitchen and stares at them for hours. Dean's final note never reaches the mural.

 _Where did you go_ , Castiel wonders, ghosting behind Sam after another stilted and fruitless interview. _I was just beginning to know yo_ u.

In a shop window, he sees Sam's pale, tired face.

What changed. Why did you suddenly remember. _Is it me._

Castiel stops at the curb to wait for traffic to ebb. Sam, reading from his phone, doesn't. Castiel yanks him back by the arm just as an SUV swerves widely past them, horn blaring. The handful of humans on the street turn to watch. Sam, one foot on the sidewalk and the other in the road, looks up from his phone blindly.

"What, Cas," he says.

Winded, Castiel fists the front of Sam's shirt and drags him to a crosswalk.

"Can we talk," Castiel asks, later, in the car.

"I'm distracted," Sam answers, steering tightly. "I'm working on it."

 _Let him find you_ , Castiel texts Dean.

(Backspace).

As far as Castiel coping? Well, he doesn't.

Sam slams books shut when Castiel enters rooms, cuts phone calls short mid-sentence. He rubs the back of his neck after Castiel brings him coffee, mouth pinching in a distasteful imitation of a true Sam smile. He locks his bedroom door.

His bedroom door.

Castiel inquires after Sam's progress, gently asks about Sam's state of mind, and every answer is an evasion. Nothing has changed that Castiel can point to except the page on the calendar, and Sam isn't saying any differently, so Castiel carries a tube of antacids in his trench coat at all times. He follows Sam from dead end to dead end, spinning puns and wordplay that no longer stir Sam's amusement.

After a promising weather pattern turns out to be the result of a cold front, Sam spends a lot more time in front of the wall of articles, completely silent. Castiel grows used to sleeping on the couch instead of in the spare bedroom, unwilling to admit that it doesn't keep Sam at home. If Sam's home, that's because he chooses to be.

Castiel abides.

*

_I miss him._

(Backspace).

_I miss him._

(Backspace).

_It's Saturday, so I miss him._

(Backspace).

*

"Cas," Sam hisses. "Cas, wake up!"

Castiel blinks awake. Sam is crouched beside the leather couch, grasping at Castiel's shirt sleeve and shaking him urgently. Castiel yawns and pushes up to his elbow. Sam is fully dressed, wearing his jacket and dingy work boots.

"Sam, what."

"It's Dean," he hisses, eyes orange in the firelight. "I have a lead. It's a real one, man, I promise. The best we've had." When he grabs the side of Castiel's head, his fingers are restless, combing through Castiel's hair. "I need you, Cas."

Oh, God.

It's four in the morning when the demon leaves the bar. Castiel crosses the street behind Sam. The fabric of Sam's jacket bulges at the curve of his back, where the gun is stuffed into his jeans, and Sam walks quickly, but silently, on the balls of his feet. The roads are empty and the streetlights blink cautiously yellow. The demon struts indiscreetly in a Greenbay Packers jersey and a backwards hat. As he walks, he drags his fingers along the chain link fence and whistles merrily to himself.

When the demon turns the corner at the end of the block, Sam jogs to catch up, then pauses against the brick wall before the turn, tucking the length of himself into the shadow. He looks back at Castiel and holds his hand up, two fingers stiff. Castiel nods and braces next to him, mirroring the position of his body. Sam peeks around the corner and pulls back quickly, mouth thinning. From this distance, closer to Sam than he's been allowed in weeks, it's clear that as much as Castiel has been sleeping, Sam has not. The skin under his eyes is thin and bruised. He's shaking slightly.

"Sam," Castiel whispers. "You've been drinking. Maybe we should wait for morning."

Sam frowns and holds a finger up to his chapped lips. He peers around the corner again and after a moment, creeps past. Castiel keeps pace, two steps behind.

They follow the demon for the next ten minutes, lagging behind as far as they can while still keeping it within sight. The demon walks and walks. Castiel begins to wonder if he's still sleeping. He and Sam are silent; they communicate non-verbally, with gestures and facial expressions. Castiel could simply be having an extremely vivid dream about miming.

Outside a hunting supply store, the demon abruptly hops off the sidewalk and crosses to the middle of the road. And stops. Castiel ducks behind a parked subaru, and grabs Sam by the wrist, pulling him down to his knees. They breathe harshly together.

"What's your plan?" Castiel asks, head against the wheel well.

Sam stares out over the hood.

"You don't have one," Castiel says.

"Tie him up and cut him 'til he talks?" Sam offers.

"Jesus Christ," Castiel grunts, then covers his mouth in shock. Sam almost smiles at him, huffs soundlessly and moves toward the trunk of the car. A loud metal screech draws their attention upwards. Wearing a Greenbay Packers jersey, a furry rat-faced creature with gleaming red eyes has its clawed fingers wrapped around the roof of the subaru, nails gouging the metal. It grins at them, displaying two rows of pointed teeth.

"Hello, fellas," it spits, fat tongue flopping out.

" _Holy_ \--" Sam says, and falls backward. It leaps from the car, but Sam manages to roll onto his side. He scrabbles to his feet, kicking up rocks. The creature lands on all fours, a long fleshy tail snapping behind it, and Sam backs away, eyes locked on the beast as he reaches under his shirt for the gun. When he raises it and takes aim, the rat-like abomination darts forward jerkily like a wind-up toy. Sam kicks it in the face, but the tail lashes out and smacks Sam behind his knees. He hits the pavement hard. The gun flies out of his hand. Castiel grabs the demon by the back of its furry neck, and swings it in a wide arc, letting go. It lands against the side of the subaru and tips it over, glass shattering.

Castiel reaches for Sam's hand, but the tail wraps around his neck and jerks him to his knees. The tail is hot and wet and pulses with sin. It squeezes tighter when Castiel yanks at it with both hands, and lifts him again, tossing him effortlessly to the side.

"Cas!" Sam shouts.

On his back, vision blurred, Castiel groans. He sits up in time to see the rat pounce on Sam. Sam grunts and cranes away from its mouth. Drool drips onto his face.

"You stupid rat," Sam hisses, and head butts it.

The demon staggers to the side, shaking its head wildly, and Sam sits up, groaning and cupping one hand over his nose. A knife wavers in the other. The rat creature regains balance and starts circling Sam tightly, red eyes blurring as it scuttles over the pavement around Sam's prone body. Castiel rises to his feet, head swimming.

"A Winchester," the rat hisses. "How delightful, how tasty."

"You know who I am," Sam says, nasally. Blood leaks between his fingers. "So you must know my brother, too."

"Oh, yes," the rat hisses. Circles tighter. "The short one. I know him. He's so tasty, too, but I'm not allowed to nibble. No, no, I can't get a taste of him."

"Where is he?" Sam demands. The rat circles and circles, tail whirlwinding. Castiel starts to step in, but Sam throws his bloody hand out, halts Castiel where he stands. "Tell me where my brother is."

Giggle. _Circle_. Giggle. _Reverse_.

"For what favor, Winchester, for what treat."

"Name it," Sam says, blood dripping into his mouth.

 _Circle_. Giggle. _Circle_. Retreat. _Circle_.

"Give me something," Sam yells. "Is my brother alive? Does Crowley have him?"

The rat hisses and rears away as if swatted, and the fleshy tail stiffens like a bone and points straight up. Castiel tenses, and though he is seeing double, energy like a collapsing star begins to build in the pit of his stomach. Sam swipes the knife at the air, moving into a crouch. The demon's back writhes under the jersey. The wide mouth pulls back into a terrified grimace, and the rat face flutters, flickering toward its human guise.

Crowley, then, as they had suspected. Sam stabs the air. Castiel takes two staggering steps forward, fingers vibrating with repressed energy.

_Give me a sign, Sam._

"I'm giving you a chance," he warns, eye whites gleaming, neck tendons bulging. "Where is my brother! Where is Crowley!"

The rat screams. Sam braces and smiles. It charges.

Castiel _detonates_.

The city block goes dark.

When Castiel feels the burn sizzle down, popping vacantly behind his eyeballs, and the last dregs of his cold grace drip down his esophagus, he finds Sam face first on the curb. Castiel drops to his knees and yanks Sam onto his back. Sam cries out, clutching his shoulder. He's drenched in blood and chunks of meat. Castiel picks the fur out of Sam's hair and shakes at the low whine that crawls out between Sam's clenched teeth. He stares blearily around as Sam rolls away to puke. The street is a skeleton of itself: melted signs, blown windows, snapping wires. It's a miracle Sam isn't dead. 

Castiel squats close, cupping the air over Sam's convulsing back.

Sirens prick the air. Someone screams.

" _Up_ , Sam," Castiel whispers. " _Quickly._ "

Sam moans, and together they stagger to the alley.

*

_I could erase you from his head._

_He would never realize._

(Backspace).

*  
They do not speak in the medical supply store. In separate aisles, they walk the length of the store, fluorescent light bulbs buzzing and skipping as they pick the necessary items off the shelf: bandages, antiseptic wash, generic ibuprofen, needle and thread, cold compresses, and a sling. Buzz, buzz, skip, buzz. The lights blink, and Castiel lets his eyes lift, finds Sam over the shelves separating them.

Sam has his green hoodie pulled up, and he's chewing on one of the drawstrings as he reads the back of an electronic heating pad box. He's holding his arm close to his ribs, and his nostrils are still crusted with blood. The bruises at the root and apex of his nose have blossomed into beautiful shades of purple and blue. He sniffs under Castiel's examination, and winces. An average day in Winchesterland.

The cashier checks them out with inelegant speed, fingers trembling as he bags the items. Castiel would have bagged them differently. Sam holds the door open for Castiel as they leave. Castiel is too hot in the car, so takes his coat off, folds it in his lap and holds onto it very tightly. It's early morning, and there is little traffic.

The ride to the motel is quiet.

Castiel puts the plastic bags on the bathroom sink. He looks at himself in the mirror and finds that his face is red. Bright red. In the other room, he can hear the whisper of fabric moving against skin as Sam unbuttons and peels his shirt off. Castiel's reflection tugs at the top buttons of his own shirt. He measures his pulse, and frowns.

"Sam, I---" (feel strange) (am sweaty) (feel dizzy).

Sam is at the entrance of the bathroom, shirtless, and Castiel stops speaking. Sam raises one eyebrow at him, face otherwise blank. The length of his torso (lean muscles and tan skin, speckled with hair between his brown nipples) is scattered with bruises and lacerations on top of shiny silver scars. He holds out his uninjured hand, steady.

Castiel licks his lips, and digs through the plastic bag.

"Thanks," Sam says quietly, when Castiel passes him the antiseptic, the bandages, and the sling. "Can you." Sam stops, shifts his elbow with a wince. "My shoulder?"

"Yes, I. After you."

Neither of us will ever speak in complete sentences again, Castiel thinks, and follows Sam into the main area of the motel room. Only one lamp is on. Sam sits on the bed closest to the door. It sinks toward the carpet under his weight, and dust wafts from the thin brown comforter. Sam's stomach creases, and the jeans cut into his lower abdomen, where the body hair thickens. There's softness there, but very little.

Castiel unrolls as measure of gauze while Sam wipes down the cluster of scrapes and scratches on his forearm and elbow. When he twists to reach, his ribs become more prominent, press outward all the way up to his pectoral. Castiel's vessel (no, it's his body) inhales sympathetically. The human body is raw to witness. Sam stares at the wall while Castiel sutures the largest of the cuts and wraps the area in gauze, securing it with several pieces of tape because he's unsure how many are actually necessary.

Sam's skin feels cool when Castiel holds his shoulder to brace him for the sling. Sam, hissing and ducking his head, bends his arm in front of him while Castiel pulls the strap behind his neck and secures it. The sling fits tightly. Castiel adjusts the strap so that it is snug, but won't chafe. His fingertips linger, trace the nape of Sam's soft neck where it is warm. Sam sucks in air sharply, and Castiel pauses, just brushing the edge of his hair. After a moment, he raises his other hand, gently pushes Sam's bangs off his forehead. Sam allows his head to be raised, shows Castiel the glittering anger in his narrow eyes.

"Please understand," Castiel says.

Sam's nostrils flare.

"You are indispensable. I cannot... justify the loss."

"We had him," Sam grates, lips barely moving. "I had him. Dean's your family, too. And you let our only lead--"

"I did what Dean would have wanted."

"Fuck that!" Sam explodes. The headboard bangs against the wall as he jumps to his feet. He forces Castiel back and paces away to the bathroom, then retraces the path, stands in front of Castiel and shakes. "We needed what he knew, Cas. I needed it."

Castiel tries to speak, but there is a tickle in his throat. He coughs with his mouth closed, and Sam's face spasms, shiny eyes narrowing.

"Cas, you can't make choices for me," Sam is saying, a flush creeping upward from his clavicle. "I told you, I fucking *told* you."

Castiel takes his hand, gets a strong grip on him, but Sam spins away, puts two feet between them instantly, and resumes pacing. Castiel sits wearily, puts his dizzy head in his hands. He watches Sam's bare feet pass by him, stop, pass by him again. The cuffs of his jeans are frayed and muddy.

"He'd have killed you," Castiel says quietly.

Sam freezes mid-pivot by the window.

"Nothing is worth losing you," Castiel says, looking up. Sam scrapes his hair back with his good hand, clenches tufts of it and glares at the carpet. After a moment, he unclenches and comes to stand before Castiel with his good arm hanging loosely. Castiel has to crane his neck to look up at him. The light bends over Sam's broad shoulders, making his skin glow. Castiel's stolen grace pulses and twists, a dying snake inside, and he cannot help himself. He reaches out, gets a hand on Sam's hip below the sling, holds it with a tight grip, by human measure. He gazes up the length of Sam's torso, watches Sam bite his lip when it shudders.

"You keep---" Sam says.

Castiel fans his fingers out, flexes them.

"---interfering, distracting me, and I don't know what you---"

Castiel leans forward, kisses Sam above his navel. The muscles clutch. Flavor bursts onto Castiel's tongue, salt and heat, and he moans, knees pressing together.

"I'm so fucked up," Sam gasps. "I don't have. Anything."

Castiel holds Sam's other hip. Bites him.

"You don't know what you're doing," Sam says. "Cas, stop."

"I do know," Castiel says, and demonstrates by unbuttoning Sam's jeans. "I'll stop if you don't want me to. I don't need this. I'll be sexless for you. But I want it."

Sam shudders and touches him back at last, just a finger grazing his cheekbone. Castiel presses into the touch until it hurts, and Sam steps back. Castiel sags, hands falling into his lap. It's not like he expected a different answer.

He gasps when Sam drops to his knees and pushes between Castiel's legs. Sam snatches Castiel by the jaw with one hand, and by the hair with the other, bends Castiel's head sharply, and leans in.

Castiel sucks in all the air from the room in one giant gulp.

As Castiel has been nearly completely human, he understands that time is perceived slightly to the left by humans. They cannot experience it all, so they filter out the pieces that they unconsciously choose are irrelevant. Castiel can count the molecules on the tip of Sam's nose. He can detach and observe scent by structure: ozone, blood, and dirt all layered on the man about to kiss him. He knows, exactly, the temperature of the room. He can sense the rapid heartbeat mirroring his, feel the dips and whorls of the anxious fingertips holding his skull at the right angle. He can feel the graze of the softest mouth as it breeches the last fraction of air separating him, and it is moist, and _yes_ , raw.

That is how he experiences life: as a complete whole and all its independent parts.

So it's in this way that he also notes that his chest is on fire. His throat is not swollen from emotion, but from a viral corruption. The buffet of air has set of a chain reaction that is inevitable, and though Castiel would raze heaven itself if Sam would benefit, he cannot prevent the cough that ricochets out of his mouth. Sam's kiss bumps his cheek, skids off and hits his ear. Castiel squeezes his eyes shut, shoulders heaving.

Sam's retreats instantly. One cold hand lands on Castiel's forehead. Castiel leans into the lovely benediction, and Sam sighs.

"You're sick, Cas."

Castiel covers his mouth, hacking. Sam rubs his back, wide circular sweeps. When Castiel can breathe again, he finds Sam has his forehead crinkled, eyebrows knitted.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says hoarsely. "That was... really bad timing."

"No, it's--" Sam's gaze is a little dim. He quirks his mouth. "It's fine, actually."

Castiel reaches for his face, and Sam bends slightly away. Castiel starts coughing again immediately, and his temples ache from the rise in blood pressure.

"Sorry," he coughs. "Just give me--"

Sam rubs Castiel's back until the worst of the fit is over, then pushes on his shoulders until Castiel caves and lies down. Castiel tracks Sam with sagging eyes as he moves around the room. He dampens a towel for Castiel's forehead, fills a glass of water, and feeds Castiel ibuprofen, removes Castiel's shoes and sets them neatly by the door. After, he comes to sit beside Castiel on the bed to pull the blankets over him, an echo from the last time Castiel was this sick. Sam adjusts them one-handedly, tucks them under Castiel's shouldes and his big palms feel good there, even beyond fever pain.

"You're not getting better," Sam states.

Castiel clears his throat, bound by fabric.

"No, not---not really."

Sam nods, and starts chewing on his thumbnail.

"You should get some sleep," he says.

"We're all that's left," Castiel says, eyelids heavy. "You have to remember that, Sam."

"I do," Sam says. His eyes are on Castiel when Castiel shuts his own. "I am."

Castiel falls asleep with Sam warming his leg, a steady, humming presence. Castiel needs to heal quickly so that he is useful. While he dreams, he steps within and views the structure of his human vessel. He disconnects dead nerves and builds new ones. He reboots synapses that are running at half speed, miniature lightning bolts in his hands. He holds his own heart in cupped hands and it feels so very small and weak. It is only a muscle that distributes blood to the body, nothing more. When Castiel wakes, so soaked with sweat that it's possible he's wet himself, the atoms in the room have rearranged in such a precise way that it's no surprise, really, that he is alone.

 _I've had thirty years of thi_ s, Sam explains by text message later, though Castiel hasn't asked. _I didn't ask_ , Castiel texts. Sam goes on. _I've been here, ok. Do you understand?_ (you have a text message). _You'll put me first, and I'm so over it, you have no idea. We'll go our separate ways for a while._ Castiel could murder him.  _Ok_ , he texts. (you have a text message). _You'll do everything you need to do to get better._ (you have a text message). _And if you need me, you can call me, and we can talk, ok. Ok?_

(you have a text message).

_Call if you need me. Ok?_

_Ok_ , Castiel texts.

(you have no new messages).

Flip.

(you have no new messages).

Flip.

(you have no---)

*

To Dean:

_Sam is gone._

(Backspace).

*  
A week later, Castiel receives a text message alert. It startles him out of a fever sleep and he flails, daylight burning his retinas. He chases the sound without vision, fingers tangled in the crochet blanket, and in his minds eye, he's on the beach with Sam, kissing the rim of their shared beer bottle. Here and now, Castiel digs the phone out from under a pile of bed covers, flips it open (you have a text message) and black hole opens up before him.

 **Sent by: Dean Winchester**  
**Timestamp: Sunday, 11:03am EST**

_LOL CRY MORE_

Castiel closes the phone shakily, and holds it tight to his sweaty upper lip. Should he call Sam. Sam would lose his mind. What should he--

(you have a text message).

(you have a text message).

(you have a)

Castiel removes the battery from his phone and drags the blanket over his head.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story came together over the last few weeks in fragments of scenes, so I structured it like that. I pictured this lost summer as being this vast, expansive rabbit hole that Sam and Castiel fall down together---coming to the other side with the strong ties and unspoken tension that we see in season 10. This is my version of that rabbit hole. And it answers the question: what exactly isn't Castiel's fault? and why are they apart at the beginning of season 10 when Castiel so clearly doesn't want to be? I wrote this while listening to a ton of trashy and sad music, but I titled it after "Kettering" by The Antlers, for obvious reasons. Feedback is incredible. Sastiel for life, tho. Ya know?


End file.
